Vive La Reine
by R.A. Bourbon
Summary: Innsbruck, I must leave you; I will go my way to foreign land. My joy has been taken away from me, that I cannot achieve where I am in misery.
1. Chapter 1

1519

January was always bleak in Europe. The hills were barren and brown, coated in a fine layer of frost and dew that shone vividly in the afternoon sun. There was something about winter that was beautiful to Cecilia. If the situation had been one of pleasure instead of pain, she would have suggested a run through the misty valley. She imagined rolling down those hills spinning and spinning until she was dizzy. She would lie in the dew-covered grass and smile at the warm sun on her face. All at once Cecilia felt disgust creep up her throat like bile ready to choke her to her death. If it were not the week anniversary of her father's death she would be happy to be traveling across the countryside of her home country.

The country was so beautiful with it's bare trees reaching their spindly limbs towards the grey sky and wafts of fresh snow unmarred by prints of feet like a blanket spread out for miles. White ice begged to be jumbled and flung into the misty air. Cecilia breathed against the glass pane separating her face from the flakes of snow falling from the frozen sky. A moist fog darted across the glass where her lips once were. She smiled to herself and dragged her fingertips across the cold surface forming a letter C in the condensation. Cecilia leant back against the cushioned carriage seat. She adjusted the scarf that clung to her pale neck and breathed into her cupped palms before sticking them back into the dense fur muff on her lap. It was white fur, a present from her half sister on her thirteenth birthday. Cecilia chewed her lower lip before glancing over at her governess.

"Lady Temple," she addressed the much older woman who turned to her with a pained look, "How much longer? My feet are frozen."

"Not too much longer, Your Highness. Would you like a throw for your feet?" Cecilia accepted the soft throw from the governess that was embroidered with her family crest and initials. She wrapped the woolen blanket around her frigid feet and sighed in relief passing a smile to her watchful governess.

Lady Temple was far from just a governess in all honesty. When the Empress Bianca, Cecilia's mother, had passed away when she was just six years of age, the Emperor had hired Lady Temple to care for his treasured youngest daughter. For nine years the kindhearted governess had been the closest thing to a mother the young duchess had. Her father had never remarried after her mother passed away and for good reason. The Emperor was growing old, and he knew it. He had not particularly enjoyed his deceased wife's companionship, and their marriage seemed to age him drastically. In the years before his death he had traveled everywhere with his coffin behind him. When he feared the end was near he wrote a will. Cecilia had not much given though to where she would live after the passing of her doting father which is why she had been surprised, and quite appalled, when in his will Emperor Maximilian had left his daughter in the hands of his grandson, Charles.

Cecilia hated Charles. It was not simple to describe their relationship for many factors came between their mutual distaste of each other. Cecilia was a threat to Charles, and everyone but her knew this fact for in his will Maximilian I had said, "Cecilia Anna Elisabeth Margret, Archduchess of Austria, will one day make me proud in the arms of God when she is crowned Holy Roman Empress."

Cecilia could sense their arrival before she even heard the horns. It was as if all the life had been sucked from the carriage. She was an empty shell. Gone were her mother, her father, her friends of the court and her pets. Soon her dear governess would be departing as well, gone in the wind like her father who had said goodbye days before his death promising to return to her with sweets and a thousand singing birds. Cecilia had no hope left and it was evident in her dull demeanor much unlike the cheerful duchess. Lady Temple could do nothing but bite her lip watching the color drain from her mistress's face. She begged herself not to weep.

The carriage rocked to a stop as the horses were slowed. She could hear them stomping their iron clad feet in irritation, pulling at the metal pieces in their mouths to continue on. The horns continued to blare as the doors were opened letting in dull shrouded beams of light. Cecilia blinked at the tall boy gesturing towards her and offering his hand in assistance. Cecilia grabbed hold and was gently led from the carriage, down the single iron step, and to the cobblestones beneath her. Cold radiated through her fur cloak and winter boots. The wind tickled her bare skin causing wisps of brown hair to dance their way from her braid and tangle around her heart shaped pale face. Lady Temple placed a hand upon her delicate shoulder and lightly pushed her forward to begin the short walk to the courtyard. Cecilia had been to the palace many times before in her fifteen years. It was where her father spent most of his time, and in her youth she had spent many summers wandering the courtyards with her mother. When she passed away the newly widowed King moved his daughter to the safety of Osten House, a chateau he had built specifically for his prinzessin, as he called her, a German endearment for princess.

Cecilia of Austria was a princess in all aspects of the word. She had grown up in a society of glittering jewels and parties. She was well mannered as a child, even more so at fifteen. Her mother had often spoiled her with sweets, as her behavior was always excellent. She was quiet, and reserved, and often more interested in learning languages in private than speaking to a crowd of young eligible princes. Her father had grown to accept the way his daughter was and had not pressured her into marriage much unlike her older siblings, and even nephews and nieces. She was the Emperor's little treasure, his schatzi, and nothing would change that. For that is why Charles had held a grudge. His own father had been forced to marry his virtually deranged mother whose condition had worsened upon the death of Philip. Cecilia had been two at the time so the event was not accountable for her, but she had heard the rumors. The whispers. The horrifying stories of madness and what the servants claimed as witchcraft. They said Joanna paced all night and chanted in foreign tongue. She was declared mad by an Imperial physician and was considered unfit to govern her own country. Charles had never felt the love of either parent. For that he was bitter.

The courtyard was square in shape and enclosed on all sides by tall brick walls. Tall windows loomed above her head. She could see the shadows of others dancing in and out of her sight as she walked forward. Rose bushes lined the cobbled pathway and she ached to stop still and smell their plush perfumed buds. Laughter was raining out of the open doors spilling over her like warm milk. She felt like she was drowning with the wave of anxiety that shit her sharply stopping her mid step. Lady Temple offered no words just the placement of her hand on Cecilia's lower back.

"Lady Temple." Cecilia whispered back to her calm governess, "Is this a welcome party?"

"No my dear, I'm afraid not." The governess sighed. Lady Temple refused to tell her innocent, wide-eyed mistress the real reason Charles was celebrating. It was unreasonably cruel to celebrate the death of a loved one in the manner in which Charles was doing so. It was not her say however, but Lady Temple could not fight the pang of sadness that wafted through her senses. She bit her tongue and pushed softly forward the young Archduchess who resumed walking and reached the archway of the doors. Music was playing in the hall, joyous lively music from a violin. She recognized the sound for she had learned the violin many years before when she had turned seven at the instruction of a man by the name of Gregory. He had been harsh and very unsatisfied of her playing. Cecilia still distasted the violin, but the music was pleasing to her. She could make out the source of the music through the crowded hall. A boy no older than her was playing as fast as his hands could handle, the crowd was dancing and laughing and enjoying themselves. That made Cecilia smile. It had been awhile since she had been to a party.

"Your Highness." A startled voice said from her immediate right. She looked over just in time to see the girl bow sending those around her into frenzy.

"Now announcing," the boy who had led them inside started making the musician on his violin stop abruptly. All eyes went to them as he finished, "Her Royal and Imperial Highness, the Archduchess Cecilia of Austria, and Lady Temple."

The whispers started almost instantly and a sense of unease hit Cecilia like a bag of bricks and mortar. It was almost like they had not been expecting her at all. What was the purpose of this party if not to welcome her?

"Wonderful! I see you have arrived in one piece!"

Cecilia turned to see Charles starting towards them from where he had been standing with a group of well-dressed young men who were regarding Cecilia with interest. It was apparent he was decently drunk judging by the swaying of his body and the smell radiating from his clothing. A goblet was perched in one hand while the other clutched the hand of a petite blonde with curls for days. Her smile was one of disdain but Cecilia responded with her own forced grin out of politeness. The girls shared forced air kisses as Charles watched.

"My darling aunt," the way he said aunt made Cecilia flinch. He said it the way you would describe a dirty, smelly, mangy dog: full of disgust. It was almost as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. Cecilia could understand his problem with calling her aunt, as he was her elder by half a decade. He smiled at her with cold eyes before finishing with, "I hope you enjoy your time in Vienna. Come and feast! Be merry! Be joyous! It will be short lived."

Cecilia frowned at the words, "Why is the party to be short lived?"

He drank from his gold jewel encrusted cup before pointing to her, "Because we are going to Spain, dear aunt. You and I will be leaving tonight." He paused and stepped closer to tip her chin up so their eyes met. He smiled a wicked smile only to finish his words, "I hope you brought your things because I fear you'll never be returning to Austria again."


	2. Chapter 2

1525

"_Innsbruck, I must leave you;_

_I will go my way_

_To foreign land._

_My joy has been taken away from me,_

_That I cannot achieve_

_Where I am in misery._"

Cecilia half hummed and sang as she gathered flowers. The tune was one she was very familiar with. It was a song her old governess Lady Temple had taught her the night of her departure from Austria so many years ago. Innsbruck, ich muss dich lassen as it was called in German. Innsbruck, I Must Leave You. The melody had been to console her, but the song had stuck to Cecilia since that day. She sang it often to herself in times when she missed home. Cecilia grabbed at her worn skirts and hefted them up above her boot tops as she strode forward to a clump of blooming bluebells. She picked at the bright flowers and bunched them together in her palm. Humming the remainder of her melody she started the long walk up the hill to the looming walls of Santa Maria Convent.

Charles had pondered for months where Cecilia would end up spending the duration of her days until she was married off. He finally settled on the convent deciding it would be in her best interest to learn from the nuns there who worked hard to educate her in the Rule of Saint Benedict as well as other subjects not entirely revolving around church life such as language and the arts. By the time Cecilia was seventeen years of age she could speak Spanish as well as any native born of Madrid, which pleased the Sisters to no end. They doted on the young Archduchess with the remarkable singing voice and musical abilities. She was the first to be asked to sing in prayer, and play the organ for the Sisters' incredibly long, and dull, masses. Cecilia did not complain however. She endured the fasts, the prayers, and the makings of rosaries with not an ill word uttered. For that reason Sister Juliana had come to love the girl much like a daughter.

The weather in Madrid was growing cold with the fast approach of mid winter when the cold was the harshest. Cecilia fretted over not bringing her thick woolen cloak and hurried up the green hill to the stained glass entrance. She peered up at the Virgin Mary and smiled sending a quick prayer her way. She made her entrance known as she opened the door by letting out a shrill cry of, "Sister Juliana!"

Sister Catherine who was smiling behind an aged hand at her much younger companion immediately hushed her. Cecilia's antics were well known amongst the group of well-respected ladies who just chuckled and sighed. Sister Juliana peered up from her book of hymns and gave her a stern look. Cecilia bound forward at a pace that would be appropriate finally stopping at Sister Juliana's side and unearthing the bouquet from behind her back.

"Cecilia, how lovely. Thank you, child." The wise woman smiled softly taking the bunch and smelling the sweet smell of bluebells. They happened to be her favorite flower, and for a moment she struggled to remember if she had indeed told this fact to the girl before her struggling to stay still in happiness. It was so much like Cecilia. The girl was always moving. She constantly had an idea or words to be spoken, which was expected with someone as educated as the young duchess. She was absolutely bright in every way. Cecilia seemed to beam much like the sun. She lit up a room with her poise, smile, and laughter. Sister Juliana smiled at the thoughts of their years together and tried to calm the young girl with a hand on her wrist.

"Sister, are we jamming today?" Cecilia asked abruptly. Sister Juliana shook her head and braced her legs as she stood, wobbling slightly, "No. In fact, we are leaving the convent for a time to help the Emperor."

The smile that had been on Cecilia's face faded away as fast as it had appeared. The almost scowl almost made Sister Juliana laugh but she hid it well and started for her chambers. Cecilia followed close behind. Her skirts flicked the ground with every step.

"Why does Charles need our help? Can't he handle his own business for once." Cecilia drew out the last word in her sentence for a long moment. She knew better than to speak in ill manner towards her nephew, but Sister Juliana wouldn't tell a soul the words shared between them. The convent was safe, and for that Cecilia was glad. Even Charles had no power over her here when she did God's work.

"We are fulfilling our duties of helping the unfortunate. This time, however, we are helping those imprisoned." Sister Juliana explained as she placed her flower gifts in a bucket perched on her windowsill. The bucket remained from the previous time Cecilia had surprised her mentor with beautiful lilies, picked from the same meadow as her bluebells.

"We are leaving for Italy tomorrow."

Cecilia was startled for a moment and giddily questioned her companion's words, "Italy? How exciting!"

"For some, maybe. I am however not looking forward to the journey. Sailing is not something I enjoy immensely."

"I have sailed but once." Cecilia stated softly, lowering her eyes as she thought of the long trek from Vienna to Madrid. The countless days stuck in her dreary carriage. Months at sea caged like an animal in her room speaking to no one. She had sung on her voyage across miles of open seas.

"_I must now bear great sorrow_

_that I can only share_

_with my dearest._

_Oh love, hold poor me_

_And in your heart compassion_

_That I must part from you._"

Parting with her home had been hard. Culturally Spain differed from Austria in many ways, and it was hard to grasp the language at first, as it was so different from her native tongue. At first she had hated the country. Hated its customs. Hated the convent and the Sisters who tried to openly accept her into their close-knit community. They had understood after all Cecilia had gone from ball gowns and gems to woolen gray habits and veils that concealed her beautiful golden brown curls. It was hard for the young girl to adapt to her non-royal life. She had grown so used to being given everything, and now she had nothing.

"You must go pack your things Cecilia. Come this time tomorrow you will be on your way to a new land."

* * *

The voyage from Madrid, Spain to Italy lasted all of three months. By the time they reached shore Cecilia was positive that she never wanted to sail again. The group of women was herded into various carriages where they would resume the two-day journey from Genoa to Pizzoghettone, Italy. Thirty-four hours in a carriage with Sister Juliana, Sister Brigit, and the bane of her existence, Sister Eleanor. Sister Eleanor was a year younger than Cecilia, forced into convent life when her mother passed away and no relative would take in a bastard daughter of a lesser-known man. She was always sneering, jealousy radiating from her glances. Cecilia always felt uncomfortable in her presence but had barely spoken to the girl who had a tendency to tattle on her if she so much as stepped a toe out of line, which was quite often. Cecilia might have been well mannered and quiet, but she liked to be on her own and think. She daydreamed quite often. Daydreamed about leaving Spain, going home to Austria, and forgetting her father had ever left her in the care of a monster that was supposed to love her.

Charles had left instructions for their carriage drivers to bring them to his private summer home in Pizzoghettone; he himself was days away in Pavia cleaning up his own mess from battle, licking his wounds at the loss of his men, and mostly ignoring the presence of his aunt. Charles often tried to keep Cecilia hidden away from the private eye, which is why he resorted to keeping her in places no one would bother to look for a forgotten Archduchess. Pizzoghettone was home to a fortress built to house prisoners of war and other prisoners of Italy. That was where the Sisters were headed to help for after the Battle of Pavia there were an abundance of prisoners in the old fortress which meant one thing: lots of laundry.

Cecilia hated laundry duty. If Eleanor was the first bane of her existence, laundry was a close second. She hated the way the harsh soaps bit at her hands and made her skin red and raw. She kept silent as she gathered bed sheets and covers from pillows in abandoned cells. She pushed on the wheeled cart before her and continued down the long, narrow hall surrounded on both sides by cells, most of which were empty. The men inside those that were occupied had not bothered to utter a word to the timid woman collecting their laundry. Cecilia stooped low to grasp the fabric of a stained tunic.

"Hello, Sister."

Cecilia was briefly startled by the words muttered her way and stopped dead in her tracks. The accented voice had come from her left. She turned and eyed the man sitting in the corner of his cell on a sheet covered straw mattress. He was dark haired and eyed, a long thin nose standing prominently from his handsome face. He was smiling with his eyes.

"Hello, sir."

"Please, call me Francis. Sister?"

Cecilia bit her lip and debated telling this man her name. He was looking at her in eager anticipation. She put her shoulders back and lifted her chin before speaking proudly, "Cecilia, Archduchess of Austria."

Francis laughed to himself for a long moment, a joyous sound that obviously had not been uttered in a long while. He turned his dark eyes to her and stood to his feet. Cecilia was momentarily impressed by his height for the man before her towered over her petite frame. He stepped forward with heavy booted steps and stuck a long fingered hand through the bars on his cell, "Bonjour, your highness. I am pleasured by your royal company." His eyes twinkled as he leaned forward to whisper low enough for only her ears, "Francis, King of France."

_"__My consolation: above all other women,_

_I will forever be yours,_

_Always faithful, in true honor._

_And now, may God protect you,_

_Keep you in perfect virtue,_

_Until I shall return."_


	3. Chapter 3

Francis had no idea how long he had been incarcerated. The days seemed to drag on and on to the point where he could not tell if he had spent months or years in the stone fortress he temporarily called home. Being a prisoner of war was not terrible however. In the time that he had stayed there in Pizzoghettone not once had he expressed boredom. He played tennis with guards as well as other royal prisoners. He went on horseback rides through the city smiling his dazzling smile and waving. The local people had grown accustomed to seeing the French king in their close vicinity. Francis had grown fond of the Italian countryside.

The word of the nuns' arrival had hit his ears a time or two during the week but he had paid no mind to it. He chuckled to himself as he lay back on his straw bed staring up with his head resting back against folded arms. If the presence of nuns caused excitement through the prison, he knew he had been there way too long. He puffed out a sigh and thought of his sons who were being held in the prison as well. He had seen them several times in the past few months, but not nearly enough. They seemed shaken at first but over time they had relaxed. They kept each other company for the most part, which made Francis happy. He could tell they blamed him for their incarceration. He blamed himself as well, but he would not admit to it aloud. The stubborn French side of him would never admit failure. A king does not fail.

He paused the first time he heard the sharp notes of a whistle echo off his cell walls. Francis strained his ears and got to his feet, hugging the bars close to him as he listened. The whistling turned to humming as the voice grew near, then words floated forth through the air ringing in his ears. He had not heard music in ages and it momentarily made him excited. He closed his eyes and listened to the sad lyrics about leaving home for foreign lands. The girl's song hit close to home. He let his emotions course through him before he flipped the switch back off. He could not show this side of him to anyone. He was to be strong. He was to be a king.

Steps lingered by his cell and she hummed once more, the same tune. He considered ignoring her and handing off his dirty garments for washing but swallowed hard before greeting the tiny bird of a girl. She was startled, and by good means. It almost made him laugh as she jumped in fright like a scared mouse. She was incredibly small, frail even, with her frumpy grey habit and too big veil. Even dressed in drab she was beautiful. Her large eyes bore into him. They were the color of the sky in late morning, cloudy blue. Wisps of hair escaped her veil but enough of it was not shown to tell what color it would be. Francis stared at her eyebrows which were high and arched still in surprise. They were golden brown and worked beautifully with her pale complexion. Her lips were plump and rose colored much like her cheeks that bore a deep blush at the moment. Francis smiled at the girl who spoke softly but clearly back to him returning his greeting.

Francis was delighted by her soft voice. It was refreshing to be around a female, and a beautiful one at that. He made sure to offer his name to the girl before him who took the information and mulled it over. She bit at her rosy lower lip and stuck her shoulders back and raised her chin. She surprised him with her words. An archduchess nun, how peculiar? Instead of following what his conscience told him to do, he decided to ignore it and listen to the devil on his shoulder instead. Her reaction to his title was priceless. He almost forgot to stifle his laughter for a moment and let out a deep bark of joy. He had startled the little nun before him. He smirked at how, dare he say, cute she looked with her wide blue eyes and even redder cheeks. He blamed it on his term of abstinence, but he was oddly attracted to her. The realization made him even more amused.

"Cat got your tongue, little mouse?" he teased her as she stood before his cage. How he wished he could leave and wrap her delicate body up into his strong arms. He wondered if she was as pure and innocent as she appeared.

"No, your majesty." She responded and as if reality seemed to hit her all at once she swept into a graceful curtsy before his cell. Her azure eyes lifted to meet his from her position on the stone floor. He felt his groin tighten with desire. The little minx was teasing him.

"Francis, my dear, for I truly cannot be a king of anything trapped inside this fortress." He admitted sadly partially to himself. He let out a dramatic sigh and once more fell to his plush mattress. He settled his pointed chin on a palm and stared through the iron at the object of his sudden desires.

"You may not feel like a king, your majesty," Cecilia spoke softly, "but you will always be a king."

"And you? Do you feel like royalty dressed in your nun's habit? Hiding your hair behind your veil? Praying every day for countless hours in a convent chapel when you should be home in your palace?" Francis could tell his questions sparked some sort of anger in the young girl for her eyes narrowed and flickered with masked emotion. Her chin raised a notch as she spoke once more. Her words chilled him to the bone.

"One cannot take away what I have forgotten. I am an archduchess. I am royalty, but I have spent so many years hidden away that I have forgotten what being royal is about. I have forgotten the splendor and the festivity. I have done away with jewels and gems. My life is simple now. My life is centered on God, your majesty. Palaces and goods may make you feel better, but I pray to God you come out of this situation and your imprisonment with a different view on life. I pray you appreciate the things that are more important than any sum of money or any precious diamond. I pray for you, your majesty."

The previously meek Archduchess made those her departing words and fled the long hall of cells. Francis did not bother calling after her. He pondered her words and shook his head of dark curls. When had possessions and grandeur become all he was? Francis was disgusted with himself. He almost laughed aloud for it took a nun to make him understand his life. It took a nun to make him alive again.


End file.
